


Muddled

by Toft



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: BDSM, Community: kink_bingo, Costume Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Military Fetish, muddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-07
Updated: 2010-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson takes extreme measures to get Holmes to give up on a rainy stakeout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muddled

**Author's Note:**

> This story could not have been written without the encouragement and whipcracking of [](http://chagrined.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**chagrined**](http://chagrined.dreamwidth.org/), who literally (okay, over IM) stood over me and yelled WORDCOUNT! every five minutes. Zee is a champion. This story also could not have been written without [](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**thingswithwings**](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/) who helped me with a kink I found troublesome, going, "Well, what about a lady on their period?" Me: "NO!" "What about... post-sex sweatiness?" Me: "NO!" "What about... it's raining and they're on a stakeout and they just start making out?" Me: "I guess I could do that." I JUST REALLY LIKE PEOPLE TO HAVE SHOWERS, OKAY?
> 
> Oh - and the ladies and gent at Stitch and Bitch, who nodded understandingly when I said I was on a porn deadline. *smishes*

"Holmes," I whispered, with some asperity, then raised my voice to be heard over the patter of the rain on the puddles surrounding us. "Holmes!"

I often found it difficult to tell, when Holmes gazed at a fixed point for long periods of time with what appeared to be intense concentration, whether he truly was paying attention to the object of his gaze, or whether he had drifted into some distant reverie. I had often made the mistake of assuming the one when the opposite was true, and as yet had found no sure way to identify the varying degrees of abstraction on his face. In this case, however, I was in no mood to take pains over it. I gave his shoulder a shake.

"Holmes!"

He started. "For Heaven's sake, Watson, what is it?"

"Are you quite sure that Hawkins will come today?"

"We have been over this several times already," he snapped. "I am perfectly sure."

A particularly persistent raindrop inched its way down my neck, and I scowled. "And are you sure it is quite necessary for us to be concealed _here_?"

"As I explained to you, Doctor, this is the only covered point from which we may see both the stable door and the bedroom window."

The low ditch offered us partial cover from the rain, and it had not seemed too uncomfortable before the heavens had opened nearly an hour before; it was mid-June, and although that is no guarantee of good weather in Sussex, it was not cold, for which I offered heartfelt thanks. However, the rain had turned our nook to a sea of mud, and I had spent the past quarter-hour contemplating how we were to re-enter our dwelling without sending Mrs. Hudson to an early grave at the sight of us.

The rain dripped from my friend's hair, which was variously plastered to his skull and attaining previously unheard-of angles where it had come into contact with the oilskin which half-covered us both, Holmes not having thought to bring one. Needless to say, the oilskin was largely ineffective as a preventative measure.

I fumed in silence for a while.

"We could be in our nice, warm living room," I observed, attempting a more tactful approach. Holmes grunted. "You know, Holmes, I really don't believe he's coming."

The hush of the rain was the only sound around us.

"You can hardly continue taking cases at your current rate with pneumonia," I noted. "You said yourself that this is not a very interesting case; what if something were to come along next week which you could not take, because you had -"

"I will not catch pneumonia," Holmes snapped. Then he sneezed. I burst out into chuckles, which turned into a full burst of laughter when Holmes caught my eye with a baleful glower. I stifled my laughter with my hand, not wanting to attract attention from the house, despite my irritation with the case. Holmes elbowed me in the side under the oilskin, which did not help to allay my muffled snorts. After a moment, his mouth twitched.

"It is rather wet under here, isn't it," he said.

"Yes," I said, pulling myself together. "It is. Can we go home?"

"Certainly not."

I sighed, and we lapsed into silence again, Holmes' gaze fixed on the house, my own on the ant attempting to cling to a blade of grass in the midst of what must have seemed a storm of Biblical proportions. Holmes shifted next to me, and the oilskin creaked above us. A little more of my shoulder was exposed to the rainfall. A wicked thought came to me.

"Holmes," I said.

He heaved a put-upon sigh. "Yes?"

"I believe you made a certain request to me several nights ago which I have yet to fulfil."

"A certain - oh." Holmes went rather still beside me, and I knew I had his attention. "What of it?"

"Well," I said, drawing out what I was sure would be my victory stroke, "You may have noticed that I received a parcel this morning from Harrods."

"Really," said Holmes.

"It is a fine metronome. And I had already assembled the sequins, feathers and hackamore. I am sure we could apply to Mrs. Hudson for some lard, provided we caught her early. No doubt the evening train would be too late."

"No doubt," Holmes said dryly. "Well, I am sure we could acquire some from her tomorrow. Your enthusiasm is noted, Watson, I thank you."

I waited for a moment, but Holmes said nothing more, and I hunched down under the oilskin, feeling decidedly put out. The country road was utterly deserted, and had been for hours. I watched a raindrop slide down the delicate shell of his ear, and a sudden impulse took me. I leaned over and licked him. His reaction was quite satisfying. He jumped, and cut short a loud exclamation when his corner of the oilskin dipped, and a small pool of water deposited itself in his hair.

"Watson!"

"Yes?" I said innocently, and I lapped at the trickle of rainwater down his cheek. He sneezed again, and batted at me. More water fell on us both.

"Good Heavens, man, what's got into you?"

"You can hardly expect me to sit here for hours in the rain without any distraction," I said, summoning a tone of righteous indignation. "Your jaw is quite distracting."

"You needn't think that this childish - ah! your moustache! - behaviour will distract me - stop it!"

The faint, mineral taste of rainwater mingled with that of his own skin; it was a heady combination. Holmes was valiantly ignoring me, having regained his composure and his share of the oilskin. I finished lapping the rainwater from his forehead and cheek, and turned my attention to the soft skin under his ear, and the back of his neck. I buried my nose in his slick, wet hair; it had quite a novel texture. His skin there had an earthier taste, and he squirmed as I applied myself.

"Watson," he said, sounding somewhat strained.

"Hmm?"

He turned and caught my mouth with his own so swiftly that we quite lost the oilskin, and he bore me down into the mud, kissing me deeply. The mud squelched obscenely beneath me, and I laughed against Holmes' lips and tongue, even as the slippery wetness soaked into my jacket.

"Holmes!"

"You can hardly expect me to -" he said, laughing now, "- sit here for hours with you and -"

I attempted to roll us over, but I only succeeded in squirming further back into the muddy puddle in which I lay. Holmes suddenly slipped and fell heavily on top of me, and his knee fell dangerously close to a rather delicate part of my anatomy. On reflex, I brought my hands up, and upon recovering myself, I found I had planted a muddy handprint on his shoulder.

"Oh, Watson, you are a clumsy ass," Holmes scolded, and, without warning, he scooped up a handful of mud and slapped it onto my forehead. I am sorry to say that I made quite an undignified noise, and he roared with laughter; in the confusion, I succeeded in rolling Holmes into the puddle, but I failed to notice the sharp incline to our left, and in his attempts to right himself, gravity overcame us, and we rolled clear out of the ditch under the hedge and down into the road.

"I say!"

A cart pulled up not five feet from us, and a rather astonished face peered down at us from under a wide-brimmed hat.

"Er," said Holmes, untangling his legs from around my waist.

"I say we run," I muttered, and Holmes grasped my arm and hauled me upright. We staggered to our feet and ran back up the incline, slipping and sliding, then rolled clean through the gap in the hedge that had been our hiding place, and down into the opposite field. We ignored the cry from the road, and galloped across the field through the pouring rain, as fast as we could go, until we reached the cover of the trees.

"He'll probably report us as poachers," I gasped, barely able to breathe from the sudden exertion and my laughter.

Holmes leaned his hand against a tree, in a worse state than I, and shook his head wordlessly. I watched him, my merriment subsiding to a glow of well-being that quite replaced the chill of the rain. Holmes had a large muddy blotch across his left cheek and nose, and his jacket and the seat of his trousers were beyond recovery. I had seen Holmes throw himself to the ground and sniff a dining room carpet in the presence of a lady, and indulge in innumerable other strange behaviours in the pursuit of cases, but I had never seen even the most callow police constable dare laugh at him. He was, as a rule, highly protective of his dignity, and it filled me with warmth that he would allow me to see him made ridiculous.

"My dear fellow," he said, wiping his eyes and leaving yet another muddy stain across his face, "You are quite an apparition. It is more likely he will report us as escaped chimney sweeps."

He reached for me, perhaps with a mind to clean some of the dirt from my face, and instead we found ourselves kissing, his mouth hot and eager against my own. He cupped my face in his hand, which was cool and slippery against my skin, and I pulled him against me. Our clothes were so wet that the sensation was not unlike standing flush together after a bath, except rather colder.

"Perhaps we should remove some of these clothes," Holmes breathed. "To prevent further damage."

"A capital idea," I agreed, but after undoing my shirt half-way, Holmes became distracted from his task and made no further attempts to remove it. As his mouth was making a full and passionate exploration of my own, I did not have the heart to protest. When he pressed his cold, wet hands against the bare skin of my stomach, however, I did start somewhat, but he used my momentum to press me against the large oak sheltering us from the rain.

"Although I am not," he muttered, attending to the front of my trousers, "a nature enthusiast, as you well know -"

I groaned as he grasped my length, his hand cool and still wet with dirt. It had a strange, gritty texture which was not unpleasant, but very distracting. His eyes were dark and intent upon me.

"Yes?" I gasped.

"I must admit that I have previously -" he twisted his hand, and my knees went weak beneath me, "- imagined that it might have its benefits."

"Really?" I managed, closing my eyes at the hot, urgent pleasure building in me. "Had you imagined this specifically?"

"Actually, yes," Holmes murmured, and kissed my mouth briefly as he coaxed me into oblivion with his hand, "Are you aware of how tidy you are? Even if had not been for your tan and bearing, I should have known you were a soldier from the way you fold your shirts. I have always wondered what it would take to - come on, my boy, _that's_ it."

I spilled into his hand as colour burst behind my eyelids, at which point my knees buckled, and I barely escaped collapsing into the wet bracken. Holmes' arms were around me in an instant, and he laughed breathily into my ear. He wiped his hand on a sodden handkerchief, then applied it to me. I winced.

"I think," Holmes said, "Our friend on the road will be long gone, and we ought to attempt to catch the six thirty to London."

"Don't you want -" I gestured down, and he grimaced.

"As delightful as this has been, I think I would prefer to wait until after a hot bath. And besides, any longer in this rain and you will catch your death."

"I'm glad you've finally seen reason," I said, although the haughty tone I affected was rather ruined by the foolish smile I could not quite surpress.

 

We were able to remove the worst of the muck from our faces and hands at the pump at the station, but we still drew a number of glances on the train on the way home, and the ticket inspector would have compelled us to stand if Holmes had not offered rather a generous amount of compensation for the mess. As it happened, I preferred to stand anyway, as the mud Holmes had slathered on me was beginning to dry, an extremely strange sensation I would have gladly foregone. However, I was consoled by the promise of a hot bath with a good sponge and a great deal of soap.

 

"Holmes," I said, much later, as we were drifting off to sleep, blissfully clean, warm and curled together in his small bed, "What about Hawkins?"

Holmes yawned. "Oh, he was probably put off by the rain. I've no doubt he will appear tomorrow."

I turned to face him. "Holmes, _surely_ you don't mean we have to go back and do it all again tomorrow?"

"Well, perhaps not _all_ of it," Holmes said, his voice wicked. "For one thing, the weather will be fine, and there will be rather more people about. But we must recover your oilskin."

End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), prompt: **wet and messy/dirty**.


End file.
